Senator Smythe
by The Moron Scribe
Summary: After his loss in the 2036 presidential race, child-model turned politician, Sebastian Smythe, releases his memoirs; the elaborate account of his rocky childhood and his unlikely marriage to actor Blaine Anderson.
1. Prologue

I was a pessimist from the moment I got the bid. I vividly remember that first glass of champagne after I swept the primaries. My husband said a toast, standing across the crowded hotel room with this crazy look in his eyes. He was so excited. He didn't just wear it on his face. It was in the way he couldn't seem to stand still or catch his breath.

It took me back to the first time I saw him. He was leaning in the door frame of the senior commons during my junior year at Dalton. I was in show choir rehearsal and he just watched; reacting to every step-ball-change like it was the first one he'd ever seen. Nothing went over his head. He absorbed everything, and appreciated it with intoxicating enthusiasm.

That sparkle he had the night I got the nomination was one I hadn't witnessed in years. He announced to the team that he had never been more proud of me. I watched him intensely, unable to smile or cross the room to accept his congratulations. I wanted more than anything to be able to feel that moment, but I'd already gone numb. It was like I was looking into a crystal ball, and the inevitability of the image it presented – the image of monumental disappointment – had me tail spinning into a drowsy depression that I may or may not still be recovering from.

We knew I'd lost eight days before the polls opened. Both of us knew, and we didn't even have to discuss it. When I walked into the hotel room, he was sitting on the foot of the bed, his sport coat crumpled up beside him and his tie on the floor. His shoes were still on, though, and his feet planted firmly on the carpet as he folded his hands and leaned forward, his head bowed.

"What, are you praying now?" I asked weakly; cynically.

"No, I'm not praying." He said plainly. His face was impossible to read as he looked up at me. "I'm just… sitting."

I nodded, removing my own jacket as I made my way to the mini bar. It felt like the first time in months that he and I were alone in a room together without members of the campaign. It was a moment I'd been waiting for, and now that it was happening, I wished he wasn't there.

"Do you want to talk?" He asked me cautiously.

I silently opened a tiny bottle of scotch and took a long swig before tersely answering, "No."

I turned around, and finally, I could read him. I recognized the look on his face. It wasn't disappointment. It wasn't anger. He was worried about me. It was almost enough to make me break down completely.

I knew what he was doing. He was putting me before his own questions and insecurities. I knew what we'd be dealing with once he'd helped me through the concession, and the fact that he was willing to postpone it, because he knew it would be hard enough as it was to get through it, just killed me. I didn't deserve him. I had never deserved him, yet there he still was: Blaine Anderson, the most nauseatingly forgiving person I have ever met.

And for some reason he's still around today, proofreading manuscripts and continuing to watch my every move with the boyish fascination that I fell in love with. He tells me constantly that he believes in me, and for reasons I've yet to figure out. The bottom line is that nothing would be possible without him. He has enough optimism for the both of us.

I could very easily write this whole book about him, but that would imply that all I am is that man I'm married to, and clearly there's much more to my story. Anyone who's ever followed current events could tell you that.

* * *

I was fourteen when I lost my virginity. As much as I'd love to rub the gory details in the faces of the dirty conservatives who made up their minds to give this book a negative review before cracking the spine, I think it's more fun for all of us if I leave something up to the imagination.

There are two things you need to know about it. The first is that I paid for dinner. The second is that I was tragically unaffected by the ordeal. I was so thrown off by my own apathy, as a matter of fact, that I fell into a deep depression and landed myself in therapy.

I met with a lady shrink; a middle-aged woman who wore cable-knit halter tops and had a series of distracting and misshapen moles on her arms that I hope, for her sake, she eventually got checked out. For two weekly sessions in a row, she asked me boring questions about my appetite and study habits. She read points off of a clipboard; as if her job was some open-note midterm she hadn't bothered to study for. I remember sitting across from her, biting my tongue to stop myself from calling out her failure. I quickly realized how irrelevant she was – even how irrelevant my assumed depression was. I had no choice but to drop her.

My parents and I agreed that there would be someone who suited me better in Paris, where we were set to spend the next year. For one reason or another, I never saw a therapist again. To this day, I've found no reason to regret it. Honestly, I think the idea that a stranger could fix my problems better than I could fix them myself is just a tad bit ridiculous.

As for personal issues, I've been told that I possess a delightful assortment of them. Although I believe that my illusive complexities are what have been seducing voters since my first Senate race, I assume they also cost me this last election.

In my concession speech, I said, "If every man is a sum of his passions, I am doubtlessly a bigger man that my opponent. However, I recognize that we need a leader who has the leftover room to carry the weight of the nation". I didn't write these words. They were written by a member of a team that traveled with me through months of campaigning; by someone who's known me at every hour of the day; someone who I've never had the time to filter myself in front of. This person found a nice way to get me to admit to being stubborn, or hot-headed, or whatever it is that I come across as. I've thought about these words endlessly. I've realized that I don't know if my alleged flaws are irreparable, or if a few more sessions with the Madame melanoma could have transformed me a more pleasant person.

What I know is that I would have made a damn good president. I recognize that I've made some mistakes, and probably at the worst possible times. I accept the likelihood that I will be ostracized for my decisions until the day that I die, whether the public disapproves fundamentally, or if they're just looking for another dinner-table conversation topic that will justify how much they already dislike me. But I would have made a damn good president. At the end of the day, I'd do right by my country. If anything, a little hot-headedness could have been the thing to save us.

These memoirs aren't meant to glorify my political career. Rather, I'd like my readers to see this as a most revealing self portrait; something that enables a view of the man I really am; the kind of president I could have been. I am in the right state of mind to lead. I am in a better place than I've ever been.


	2. Chapter One: The Packaged Deal

In the discussion of my pending conception, I've always assumed that there was a crucial decision to be made. My parents could have had a baby, or they could have gotten a dog; something small that would fit in a purse. In the end, they must've realized that in order for their precious fortune to stay in the family, they would actually have to start a family. Also, the promise that a child would one day be toilet trained may have influenced the decision as well.

My parents grew to love me very much, but I stand by my suspicion that during my early years, I was very much an accessory. My father gave my mother a baby to humor her claims of a maternal instinct, and as a result, she got to show the world what an honest-to-goodness _mother_ she was. She refused to hire a nanny, and wouldn't let it past anyone that she was above letting the help raise her children. Instead, she took me everywhere as a token of her superiority.

I remember one outing in particular. I was about five or six and Mother had an appointment to get foils in her hair. We walked into the salon; a fairly high-end place on the upper-east side where you could see your reflection in _everything_; and she pretty much shut the place down.

All through my childhood, I had to jog to keep up with my mother's long, purposeful gait. Her constant speed is probably the reason I turned out to be so athletic. It was especially bad when she held my hand. I didn't even have the option to fall several paces behind every few minutes to catch my breath, only to sprint to catch up with her as soon as I felt ready. That day at the salon was a hand-holding day, and my cheeks were flushed from the cardio work-out by the time we walked through the door.

"Well, hello, Mrs. Smythe…" A slender, animated man, who in retrospect was probably a flaming homosexual, cooed. "It's good to see you again."

She didn't even say hello back. She simply let go of my hand and pointed down at me. "Is there somewhere he can sit?"

The man slouched down at me, batting his girlish eyelashes. "Well, who do we have here?"

I scowled at him. I'd never been very good with strangers.

"Sebastian, Charles said hello to you. What do you say?"

It was funny, because I hadn't heard him say hello to me at all. I did, however, hear her ignoring him when he said it to her. I knew better than to argue with mother, though.

"Hello, sir." I said sweetly, although I'm sure the glare didn't leave my eyes.

"Would you _look_ at those manners," He grinned at her. "Mrs. Smythe, your little boy is precious."

That was the other thing: people never complimented me. They were always complimenting her about me. As an adult, I can understand why someone would compliment someone on raising a good egg. That being said, I could have been offered at least partial credit for my good qualities. I like to think that even as a kindergartener I was practicing a little free will.

My mother beamed at Charles, "Thank you," She told him breathlessly.

"You can put him right over there," Charles said, pointing a bay grouping of leather armchairs that acted as the salon's waiting area. It was as if we were at a Christmas party and he was telling my mother she could put her purse and coat in the guest room. Like I said, I was an accessory.

The rest of the visit was a varying repetition of my interaction with Charles. I would look up from my Power Rangers coloring book to see women strutting past me with silent smiles, only to hear them raving to my mom from across the salon moments later.

"Does that _angel_ belong to you?" They would say. "He is just adorable."

After about a half hour, I'd had enough of being ignored. I dropped my crayons on the glass coffee table and lifted myself up, following the sound of my mother's voice.

"Mommy, can I sit by you?" I asked her.

"Sebastian, honey, mommy's getting her hair done," She told me sweetly, neglecting to actually look at me because her stylist wouldn't let her move her head while she put the foils in. "These chairs are for the other ladies who are here to get their hair done too."

"I want to get my hair done!" It seemed like a reasonable request at the time.

Somebody laughed. I don't remember who. I remember feeling embarrassed, though. I didn't like to be laughed at.

"Sebastian, this hair salon is just for ladies. You need to go back where I put you and wait for me to be done."

"For how long…?" I asked miserably, grabbing at her smock.

She shook me off with her elbow. "Not long. Go sit."

I crossed my arms and made sure to stomp my feet on my way back to the waiting area so she would know just how angry I was. My mood stayed constant for the rest of the afternoon.

We stopped in the bakery on the way home so my mother could pick up a cake that she had ordered for some dinner party or another. She had gotten a manicure at the salon as well, because apparently getting her hair done didn't waste enough time, and thankfully, the delicate state of her fingernails had prevented her from taking my hand again. I stood in line with her, still crossing my arms dramatically, wanting to make sure she knew just how upset I was for being ignored.

"Well, hello there," An overly-perky middle-aged woman with auburn ringlets and disgustingly deep dimples greeted us when we reached the counter. "Well, it looks like somebody's grumpy."

Yes. Somebody was grumpy. It wouldn't have killed her to be a little more specific.

"Sebastian, be polite," My mother ordered me.

"Hello," I said tonelessly, just to get it over with. The woman grinned, satisfied enough by my terse greeting. My mom gave her our last name and the woman went and got it for her. Apparently, though, she just couldn't let my emotional state go.

"He looks like he could use some cheering up. How about a cupcake? …On the house?" The lady asked me. Feeling stubborn, I just glared at her. I knew that mid-day dessert wasn't my decision anyway.

"That would be lovely." My mother answered for me.

The woman disappeared for a moment, and returned with a simple vanilla cupcake. "Best cupcakes in New York City." She promised, handing it to my mom, who handed it to me.

"Sebastian what do you say?"

"Thank you." I said boredly. My mother took the cake-box and headed for the door expecting me to follow.

Now, for starters, I hadn't much of an appetite, on account of I was still so overcome with rage. To add to that, there was no way I could eat a cupcake while walking at the pace my mother expected me to walk. As we moved down the sidewalk, I was so concentrated on balancing the cupcake that I hadn't even wanted in the first place in my palm, trying drop it or get frosting on the school uniform that I still hadn't had the opportunity to change out of, that I fell even farther behind my mother than usual.

"Sebastian!" She snapped after about ten minutes, when she realized I was a good two yards behind her. "What are you doing!"

"Mommy, my cupcake…" I tried to explain to her. "The frosting's getting on me!"

"I don't care," She sighed, exasperated, waiting for me to catch up with her again.

Those are the words I've always hated the most: "I don't care", or any variation such as, "that means nothing to me". Even as a kid, the idea of my words being completely worthless stung like nothing else. Those three words, "I don't care," would always send me over the edge.

And so I cracked. I let out a long whine, stomping my foot, and tossing the cupcake down at her shoes. I can't remember what shoes they were, but knowing my mother, they were probably expensive.

"Sebastian Edward Smythe!" She squealed. She tightened her hold on the cake box as she wiggled her foot about in front of her, letting chunks of thick frosting slide off of her. "Oh, you are in big trouble!"

She strategically placed her arm under the bottom of the box so that she could hold it with one arm, and grabbed me with her free hand. Manicure or none, she had to make sure she could drag me home as quickly as possible.

I instantly regretted my impulsive decision to toss the cupcake. I remember thinking that was the end. Although I knew my mother was kind enough not to murder me, I had half the mind to expect that she'd try to sell me, at the very least. She didn't say a word the entire block back to our building. I assumed that she was pondering my punishment. Every second she didn't talk was like another step toward my inevitable doom. By the time we were in the elevator that would take us up to our penthouse, I began to take the opportunity to ponder myself. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be sold. Maybe the family she sold me to would be more attentive.

"Inside," She barked as the elevator doors opened up into our foyer. I quietly shuffled in, across the hard wood floors, down the hallway to the kitchen, where I knew she'd be headed anyway.

There were people in the kitchen, which wasn't too shocking. It seemed that there were always people in our kitchen, there to help my mother do the domestic things that she was too tired to do herself.

"Mrs. Smythe!" An older, jovial man greeted her with a sense of urgency as soon as she'd entered. "Did you want three dozen broccoli tarts or four? We made the crusts for four then realized we might not have the count right!"

My mother set the recently purchase cake down on the counter. "Three, but I suppose there's nothing you can do about it now."

"Also, how much spice are you looking for in the main course…?"

As my mother continued to consult with the chef, I slowly realized that my place in the Smythe house was safe. I was off the hook. The relief lasted only a few moments. I fled from the kitchen before my mother could turn around, reminded of her previous disciplinary intentions by the sight of me. However, as soon as I made it to my bedroom, I was distracted by the painful realization that I'd left my Power Rangers coloring book at the salon, and I had something new to pout over for the rest of the night.

* * *

I fell in love for the first time when I was seven. His name was Ken Johnson, and he was beautiful. He was also the first adult to treat me like a human being, although at the time I may have been too distracted by his perfect jaw line to notice.

I had been put to bed early, so as to be excluded from yet another one of my parent's dinner parties. Maybe some small children are able to fall asleep simply because they're told to, but I was never one of those children. So, after what seemed like hours of tossing and turning, but was probably only ten minutes, I snuck out of my room in my Buzz Lightyear flannel, and made my way to the parlor.

That's where I saw him for the first time. He was a friend of my father's; sitting on our couch, holding a glass of wine with his sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms. He had dark hair and piercing hazel eyes. Let's just say those were qualities I never completely got over.

I wasn't particularly emotionally evolved for a seven-year-old, so I had trouble understanding what my heart was doing at the sight of him. All I knew was that if I didn't go introduce myself, I was going to die.

I couldn't find the words. I grinned timidly as I crawled up next to him on the couch. He noticed me immediately, a sly smile creeping over his face,

"Hello there, Sebastian," He said enthusiastically.

I was completely caught off guard. "How do you know my name?"

"Your mommy and daddy have told me a lot about you."

I put on my best smile. I really wanted to charm him. "All good things, I hope." I'd heard my mother say that before in response to similar statements.

He laughed out loud. I didn't understand why. My face fell for only a moment before he stuck out his hand. "Well, Sebastian, my name is Ken."

I shook it, feeling extremely important and grown up. I'm pretty sure that was my first real handshake. "Hello, Ken."

"You're a very handsome little boy. Has anyone told you that?"

I shook my head, because they hadn't. Not to my face, at least.

Suddenly, we were interrupted. "Sebastian!" My mother's voice cut between us. She stormed over, livid. "Why are you out of bed?"

"Oh, he's just schmoozing me," Ken said.

"Yeah, I'm schmoozing!" I repeated, matter-of-factly.

Ken laughed again. "Tell me you've gotten him an agent!"

My mother blinked back and forth between the two of us. I wasn't sure what an agent was, but she seemed very pleased at the concept of getting me one. I had high hopes that it was some sort of action figure. "I haven't really thought about it."

"What's an agent?" I asked, but they ignored me.

"Well, he's doing a fine job representing himself," Ken joked. "I'm directing a commercial next week that he'd be perfect for. You should bring him by auditions…"

And that's how my ability to flirt landed me my first real job.

* * *

There have been many questions about my relationship to the Thayer family, and I'd really like to do my best to answer them all. First things first, I met Lydia Thayer on the set of that first commercial. Somewhere on this planet, the footage of the two of us adorably endorsing Minute Maid Apple Juice still exists. I think we were supposed to be playing brother and sister, but that was never completely clear to me. She looked enough like me, with her sandy hair and thin build. It would make sense for that to be the illusion that Ken was trying to create.

What was really impressive about Lydia was the fact that at eight-years-old she was able to speak eloquently in at least four different dialects. As herself, she had the same South Carolina drawl that the men in her family have been characterized by for decades. When the cameras were rolling, however, she spoke just like I spoke. She passed quite well for a northerner.

Lydia's mother was a gorgeous belle. She was one of those women who probably hadn't left the house without lipstick on since she was fourteen. She had high cheekbones and a sunny smile that made it impossible not to feel pleasant in her presence. I always thought she should have her own children's show on PBS, and wondered if that's the route she would have taken if raising her children (and managing their careers) hadn't become her full-time job.

I learned later that Abigail had moved her children to the city during a trial separation from their father, Jacob. At that point, the separation had already lasted about three years, and the Manhattan elite were already referring to the power couple as "divorced". Within a year of my meeting them, however, Jacob had had some sort of revelation and came to join his family in New York; a decision that, as I will discuss in later chapters, ultimately had a huge impact on all of us.

I met Stephen Thayer during that first shoot too, although it doesn't feel like I met him until much later. He was eleven, and probably felt like he was too cool or too independent to be dragged somewhere he wasn't actually needed. He spent the entire day slumped against a wall with his Game boy, perfectly content with the soundstage's entire population pretending like he didn't exist.

"That's my brother," Lydia made sure I was aware of the situation.

"Cool," I replied. There wasn't much else to say.

"Do you have any brothers and sisters?" She asked me cheerfully, quite eager to have a conversation, even if the topic was completely dull.

"No." I said simply, because it's not like there was any way to elaborate.

"I would die if I was alone all the time," She sighed. "Do you have pets?"

Before I could answer, Ken had called places. We stood behind a little wooden stand with the words "Apple Juice" etched on it in broken chalk handwriting. We mugged for the camera, forcing every adult in the room to deep throat our cuteness. In between takes – literally every time she got the chance – Lydia would turn to ask me another question.

"What grade are you in?"

"What is your favorite subject in school?"

"Do you like _Rocket Power_,"

Her voice wasn't _unnaturally_ loud. It actually had a very soothing quality to it. For some reason, however, it naturally carried. When Lydia was talking, you were unable to focus on anything else. That's one of the reasons I hated it so much.

"Lydia, Honey," Ken would say. "Could you be a good little girl please lower your voice? If the cameramen don't get my notes, the entire commercial would fall apart."

I watched Ken's lips move as he talked, nodding quickly even though he wasn't even talking to me. I wanted to hear every word he said.

"He treats me like I'm five," Lydia hissed bitterly, leaning back in her chair, and flipping her sandy hair over her shoulder. "I'm practically nine already."

I had sold my soul to Ken by that point. I turned to Lydia and said as rudely as I could, "He _said_ to not talk."

"He _said_ to lower my voice." She said, although she got louder again as she said it. "My voice has been lowered."

I rolled my eyes. That was something I had been doing a lot lately. I crossed my own arms just to show her that I was as annoyed with her as she was with me.

Ken turned around and caught sight of the two of us sulking. "Kids…! Hello…!" He waved his arms to get our attention. "You're selling juice, not poison. Can I get some smiles?"

The two of us snapped out of our moods quickly and showed some teeth. We may not have had mortgages or families to support, but neither of us wanted to get fired. That was the first thing the Thayer family and I had in common: we didn't see failure as an option.

Lydia Thayer and I became a package deal. Apparently, all of Madison Avenue found it impossible to believe we weren't actually related. We did ads for everything kids could do: band-aids, laundry detergent, Mac & Cheese; print ads, television ads, even a few radio spots. I remember seeing myself in the newspaper or during a commercial break on Nickelodeon and feeling like that was the end. I was famous, and could live easily for the rest of my life.

It was about four months after we started working together that Stephen acknowledged me for the first time. It was during a shoot for Old Navy Fleece, and Stephen and his Gameboy had tagged along, as usual. I was in the middle of sneaking a big cookie from the Craft service table, and he marched up to me with this mean smile on his face.

He said, "Lydia says she hates you."

"Good," I didn't look at him. I grabbed the cookie and took a bite. "I hate her too."

"What do you think is going to happen when the world finds out that you two are phonies?" Stephen sneered. "All of this will be gone."

I looked around. "All of what?"

"Do you really think you'll still get jobs if it comes out that you hate each other…? You won't be famous anymore."

I was terrified. Performing was my life. There had been talk of bright horizons: auditions for daytime soaps, even primetime sit-coms! A few more commercials with my surrogate sister, and I would have really made a name for myself! But I wasn't ready to go solo! Not yet.

I put my cookie with the bite taken out of it back on the table, wiping my hands on my fleece (an action I very much regretted later when the director and my mom were yelling about the chocolate streaks), and marching over to Lydia, who was sitting in one of the director's chairs they'd put out for us to make us feel important.

"I want to be your friend!" I told her confidently. "We can't be famous anymore if we hate each other."

She turned to me slowly, a questioning look in her eye. She thought about it for a moment before answering, "Okay."

And with that, my entire life was changed.

Being friends with one of the Thayer children was like finding a golden ticket in your Wonka Bar. It opened up a plethora of opportunities. Abigail Thayer lived to pamper her children. Looking back, I realize it was because she had nothing else to do. A day out with my own mother included flavorless salads from quaint cafes and picking out wallpaper swatches. Abigail took us to Build-A-Bear. She took us to Cony Island and Lego Land. She bought us giant plush Saint Bernards from FAO Schwartz, and let us eat at McDonalds and spend an hour in the play place. Once Lydia and I became official friends, Abigail started bringing snacks for me to the sets of our commercials along with the snacks for her own kids. I was thrilled to be introduced to Gushers and Teddy Grahams; things my own mom had never thought to buy.

Every time Abigail would drop me off at home, she'd give me a big hug and say, "until next time, pumpkin". I would go to bed depressed, thinking how unfair it was that I had to wait until next time. Everyone already though Lydia and I were siblings. Wouldn't it be so much easier if Abigail was actually my mother?

With one invitation to stay for dinner, Abigail gave me a glimpse of hope. She stood in Lydia's doorway and chuckled, "Sebastian, you spend so much time here, we might as well adopt you."

At that point, I was convinced that it was meant to be. So one night after my parents put me to bed so they could set up another one of their dinner parties, I started packing a backpack. It was mostly filled with underwear and Power Rangers action figures. My heart raced; adrenaline pumping through my veins as I visualized my escape route. I'd run to the elevator while they ate in the dining room. I'd haul a cab and give them the Thayers' address, which I had secretly memorized weeks in advance. I thought back to all of the times my parents had ignored me. I figured they wouldn't miss me at all.

As I flicked off my light switch, I gave my room one final glance. I felt a little sad about leaving all my toys, but I quietly reminded myself that Mrs. Thayer would buy me lots of new toys.

I didn't put my sneakers on. I didn't want them to make noise. I tucked them under my arm as I tiptoed toward the elevator. As soon as I was on my way down, I did a little fist bump. I was going to be free at last.

I walked out into the lobby, grinning like I had never grinned before. I fell onto the marble floor to put my shoes on. I'd just gotten the first one tied when a voice interrupted me.

"Well if it isn't my favorite star…"

My eyes slowly traveled up to meet the eyes of Ken Johnson. Apparently, he was showing up to dinner late. He crouched down to talk to me, and I swear to god, my face set on fire.

"Where are you off to, Sebastian?" He asked me.

"Lydia's house," I have to say that my voice was surprisingly steady. "They invited me for a sleep over."

"Sebastian…" He said, his voice taking on a warning tone. "…I've done enough commercials with you to know your acting voice from your real one."

I was humiliated. I hadn't even thought about him. The love of my life was catching me in my weakest moment.

"I really am going to Lydia's house," I answered, hoping that my "acting voice" had disapeered.

"But they don't know you're coming…" He nodded. How in god's name did he know? "I think you better turn around and go back upstairs. Your parents will worry."

"No they won't…" I mumbled. "They never worry about me."

"Sebastian, your parents love you very much," He told me gently. I looked him in the eye for the first time that night and realized that everything he could possibly say had to be the truth because, clearly, only ugly people lied. "If you have a problem with them, running away isn't going to solve it."

I finished tying my second shoe. "It might…" I tried.

Ken just chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Why don't we go upstairs and have a talk with them. You can tell them what made you want to leave without telling them, and maybe they'll fix the way they've been acting."

He grabbed my hand and helped me to my feet. "Sometimes I just want to go to the toy store," I told Ken, distraught. "And I want to be allowed to sit down and not eat snacks while I'm walking."

"Well, Sebastian, those sound like reasonable requests,"

As we stood waiting for the elevator, part of me regretted letting myself get caught. I thought about my plan gone wrong and wondered if I'd ever have my dream live under the Thayers' roof. If anyone other than Ken had tried to stop me that night, I probably would have at least put up some sort of a fight. But I didn't. I went back up to the penthouse and explained my hopes for a more child-friendly lifestyle to my mother. She nodded understandingly, and told me she was sorry if she'd been neglecting me, but her schedule was just so crazy. She told me that we would try to compromise more.

A week later, she was dragging me down Fifth Avenue after an audition, and I was spilling ranch dressing all over myself as I tried to eat carrot sticks on the go. I assumed that at the same moment, Lydia and Stephen were sitting at an actual table at Serendipity, enjoying frozen hot chocolate. Me? I had listened to Ken Johnson once again, and as usual, my life was completely unfair.


End file.
